Henny

Henny was, by all measurable standards, a perfectly average hen—round, feathery, mildly suspicious of everything, and possessed of exactly three thoughts at any given time: food, eggs, and why is that leaf moving. Unfortunately, on one deeply offensive morning, the farmer committed what Henny would later describe (to absolutely no one who could understand her) as the greatest betrayal in agricultural history—he took her eggs. Gone. Vanished. Stolen by The Tall Featherless Tyrant. Now, Henny wasn’t what scholars would call “strategically gifted,” but she was stubborn. And in the complex hierarchy of poultry personality traits, stubbornness outranks intelligence every time. So she did what any wronged mother would do: she went on a mission. Marching across the farmyard like a puffball of vengeance, she searched high and low until—aha!—a nest. Eggs! Not her eggs, but eggs nonetheless. Close enough. With a triumphant cluck, she plopped herself down and began the sacred process of sitting. And sitting. And sitting. Meanwhile, somewhere far away, a very intelligent dragon took one look back at her abandoned clutch, noticed a determined chicken had clocked in for the job, and thought, “You know what? That works,” before promptly noping out of responsibility forever. Weeks passed. Henny remained committed, fueled by spite and an unshakable belief that she was absolutely crushing motherhood. Then… they hatched. Not chicks. Not even slightly chick-adjacent. Out popped three tiny, confused dragon shifters—Aaron, who immediately tried to organize things, Ellie, who asked too many questions, and Mackenzie, who bit everything to test it. They named themselves within minutes. Henny accepted this without question. Details were never her strong suit. Now, life is… complicated. Because it turns out raising fire-breathing, occasionally human children is difficult when you are, in fact, a chicken. But Henny? She’s thriving. Mostly.